Prefatory note

by Mrs. R.L.Stevenson

'WE'RE FAR
frae hame,' murmured a dying Scot, when
my husband found him lying on the floor of a native
hut in one of the islands of the Tukalau group. It
seems strange that with a love of home only equalled
by the Swiss, the Scot should be the greatest
wanderer on the face of the earth, excepting the Jew, who
has, at least, the excuse of belonging to a race without
a country.

My husband
was born with the Scottish longing to
get to 'the back of beyond'; in his very nursery he
strained at the tether strings, and was never so happy
as when allowed to accompany his mother in her
journeys to the South of France. There, in Menton,
the child acquired an accent and vocabulary that
remained with him all the rest of his life. He knew
little of the French grammar (or, indeed, of any
grammar) but spoke the vernacular with a freedom and
accuracy that caused him to be accepted everywhere
by the French as one of themselves, though perhaps
from another province. Once in Nice, when
exhausted by a long walk, he stopped to rest at a low
drinking-place. A couple of villainous-looking fellows
at the next table ceased speaking, regarded him
intently for a few moments, listening to his order, and
then resumed their conversation, satisfied that they
had nothing to fear. They were discussing their
hatred of the English, and the possibility of drugging
and robbing the first Englishman who should enter
the place.

As the
boy grew into manhood the Scottish unrest
and his own adventurous spirit made a life of inaction
almost unendurable; it was only the knowledge that
such a course would break his father's heart that held
him back from accepting the advice of Mr. Seed
(afterwards premier of New Zealand) to go to the Samoan
Islands. How he would have paid his passage I cannot
conceive, as the small amount of pocket money
allowed him by his father not only would have been
insufficient for the purpose, but he had an invalid
friend lying in the hospital whose comfort depended
on that infinitesimal sum. For a long while he was
fain to content himself with inactive roving. To the
end of his life he found the keenest pleasure in the
study of a map, especially one of roads. Like Branwell
Bronté of whom he could never speak without
emotion, he would sit poring over maps, making
imaginary journeys. Like young Bronté, too, he knew
the hours when the railway trains of London and
Paris started, and when outgoing passenger ships left
English and French ports. "Poor cage bird!" he cries.
'Do I not remember the time when I myself haunted
the station, to watch train after train carry its
complement of passengers into the night, and read the
names of distant places on the time bills with
indescribable longing?'

In his
early twenties the stern parental discipline
relaxed to a degree, and the son, whose uncertain
health began to show the hereditary weakness
derived from his mother, was allowed more freedom.
He was sent to Germany for a vacation with Sir
Walter Simpson in 1872, and after an attack of
diphtheria in 1873, was ordered to the South of France by
Dr Andrew Clarke. The latter excursion was,
however, only made possible by the intervention of Mr
Sidney Colvin, between whom and the attractive,
brilliant boy, a lifelong friendship had already begun.

Sir Walter
Simpson, son of the famous physician,
was a reticent, cautious man, who came to no
decision until the question involved had been carefully
examined on all sides. Scrupulously honest himself,
he judged others with an extraordinary generosity.
Indeed, his leniency towards the faults of others very
nearly touched the borders of cynicism. He was a
loyal friend and possessed those rare qualities which
make a man a desirable companion. The intimacy
between him and Louis Stevenson began when both
were attending the University of Edinburgh, and was
further cemented by their common love of the sea.
The two had already made several short cruises along
the Scottish coast, in a boat belonging to Sir Walter,
when the canoe voyage was planned.

By this
time Louis Stevenson had made a slight
mark in literature, and a little money, by writing
magazine articles, so that he now felt capable of at
least paying his way in a very modest fashion on the
projected inland voyage; and, besides, he hoped to
write an account of the trip which should cover the
expenses of a second venture. For this book, The Inland
Voyage [sic], he received from Mr Kegan Paul the
amount of twenty pounds: but he had gained in
health, and had grown to know better the character
of the French peasant and villager.